Suddenly there were footsteps and laughter upon the stairs. Like Lazarus risen from the dead, we came to life, pinching our cheeks to give them color, hastily straightening headdresses and tucking in stray wisps of hair, daubing drops from our dainty crystal scent vials, smoothing down skirts and sleeves. Then the door swung open and in sauntered the King’s gentlemen, with George Boleyn leading the pack.
They were like a flock of tropical birds, a veritable rainbow of gorgeous, gaudy colors in their feathered caps, satin doublets, and silk hose, with elaborate blackwork embroidery edging the collars and cuffs of their snowy-white shirts, and gemstones flashing and twinkling in their rings, brooches, and on the hilts of their swords. All young, handsome, debonair, and carefree, rakish and wild, they were the wits and poets of the court, happy-go-lucky and devil-may-care, the peacocks and popinjays in whose presence life was never for an instant dull.
Laughing heartily, with one arm flung around the shoulders of his best friend, Sir Francis Weston, George approached us.
“Ladies”—he doffed his cap and bowed to us—“we bring you fruit!” He indicated the big straw basket carried by Sir Henry Norris. Then, assisted by his friends, he began to distribute it among us—apples, oranges, plums, grapes, cherries, and pears. And soon joyful banter, merry laughter, and coy flirtations replaced the sleepy air of boredom and gloom that, only moments before, had pervaded the room.
Sir Thomas Wyatt, of the sable beard and smoldering eyes, renowned as the most brilliant poet of the court, plopped himself down upon a cushion at Lady Eleanor’s feet and began to strum his lute and serenade us with a song about the fruits of love. As he sang, his dark eyes lingered meaningfully upon that lady’s bosom, while that beloved, one-eyed, flame-haired rogue, Sir Francis Weston, and blond, blue-eyed, baby-faced Sir Henry Norris settled themselves on either side of Madge Shelton and began to playfully vie for her attentions. A tawny tendril of hair had escaped from the back of her gable hood, and each begged to be allowed to cut it and wear it forever enshrined in a golden locket over his heart. And tall, patrician Sir William Brereton smilingly commandeered Lady Margery’s fan to cool himself and settled back with his head in her lap to let that awestruck damsel feed him grapes and timidly stroke his sleek, raven-black hair.
Only George stood apart. Though a smile and a witty remark were always upon his lips, his eyes constantly strayed to the windows.
“Will you sit, my lord?” I asked, moving aside my skirts to make room for him beside me on the window seat.
Smiling his thanks, he accepted and turned at once to prop his elbows upon the sill and lean out, eyes squinting into the distance, to scrutinize the road.
“You are awaiting a messenger from your father, perhaps?” I queried.
“Anne,” he answered, his voice rich with warmth and longing, “Anne arrives today.” His body tensed and he leaned farther out. “Will!” He beckoned anxiously to Brereton. “Come here; your sight is sharper than mine. Look there and tell me, does the dust rise or only my hopes?”
And, sure enough, there in the distance was a cloud of dust, and in its midst we could just discern a cart and a small group of riders. Then he was gone, sprinting down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Is it Anne? Has Anne come?” George’s friends chorused excitedly. And, forgetting all else, without even a bow or a by-your-leave, they bounded after him, jostling and tripping each other in their haste.
“Sir William, my fan!” Lady Margery called after Brereton. But it was too late; they were already gone. And we were left to our own devices, and each other’s dreary and familiar company, once again.
From George’s abandoned place, I leaned from the window and watched the scene below.
He called her name and waved his cap in the air.
She waved back and, spurring her horse onward, left her attendants, with their burden of pack horses, cart, and luggage, coughing in the dust.
She had scarcely reined her mount before George was there, sweeping her down from the saddle and spinning her round and round in a joyous embrace. Their laughter blurred together and became one, and the skirt of her rich brown velvet riding habit billowed out behind her.
“Greetings, Anne, and have you a kiss for your oldest and dearest friend?” Sir Thomas Wyatt asked, elbowing past Weston and Brereton, flaunting the privilege of prior acquaintance. The Wyatts of Allington Castle were neighbors of the Boleyns in Kent, and Tom and his sister Meg had been their childhood playmates.
“Indeed I have!” she answered, and promptly turned to plant a kiss upon George’s cheek. “And one for my second oldest and dearest friend as well!” she added, giving Wyatt the requested kiss.
“And what of me?” Francis Weston demanded. “Though we have never met, Mistress Anne, George has told me so much about you that I feel I have known you my whole life!”
“Indeed, Sir Francis, George has told me so much of you that I feel the same, although…” With a tantalizing smile she hesitated. “Methinks my reputation would soon come to grief if I were to bestow such a familiarity upon you!”
His friends burst into laughter and slapped Weston’s back and nudged him playfully.
“Now, Mistress Anne, I protest!” he cried, dropping to one knee with a hand upon his heart. “I am no cad, no matter what they say of me!” he finished with a saucy wink.
“It matters not where the truth lies,” she said graciously, extending her hand. “You are George’s friend, and so you shall be mine as well!”
Then Henry Norris and William Brereton were pressing forward. There they were, the brightest stars of the court, clamoring for her attention, for just one word, one glance. Like starving beggars devouring the crumbs tossed to them. What fools men are!
They were all talking at once now—all but George, who merely looked at her and smiled adoringly—jostling and shoving each other aside, begging to be the one to escort her to her chamber. Then, without a word, George proffered his arm and she took it. The others groaned, long and loud, like men dying upon a field of battle. To console Brereton, Anne let him carry her riding crop; he held it as if it were some sacred relic that he would lay down his life for.
“Hold a moment!” Norris cried. He darted in front of Anne and, from the basket over his arm, began to strew crimson rose petals in her path. “I knew my lady would be arriving today, so I was up with the dawn to gather a carpet of roses for her to walk upon!”
“He means his valet was up with the dawn to gather them!” Weston chortled.
Not to be outdone, both Wyatt and Weston announced that they had written sonnets to welcome her. And before Wyatt could claim the privilege of prior acquaintance again, Weston loudly commenced reciting, only to have his words curtailed by a sharp cuff upon the ear.
“You look a pirate and it is a pirate you are!” Wyatt hotly declared, referring to the patch Weston wore over the empty socket of his left eye. “You have pirated my entire second verse!”
“It is a bold accusation you make, Sir, and for it you shall answer!” Weston’s hand sought the hilt of his sword and he advanced towards Wyatt, the large pendent pearl dangling from his left earlobe swaying violently.
It was then that Anne came between them, laughing and resting a hand lightly upon each of their indignantly heaving chests.
“Verily, this is the most passionate welcome I have ever had! Please, gentlemen, do not spoil it by brawling. Let these rose petals be the only red that falls upon the ground this day, and not your life’s blood!”
Then, all thoughts of violence dispelled, they followed her inside.
Anne had scarcely arrived at court—indeed her servants had not had time to unpack all her gowns—before